Chapter 16, Mira
I stalk down the corridor, every step reverberating with the sting of my own words, circling back, growing heavier, sharper, sinking their claws into me like a curse I can’t shake.
Betrayal.
I should have slammed her down. Pressed her into the unforgiving floor, wrists crushed beneath my grip, her body convulsing under the raw violence she dared to summon. I should have torn through her defiance, skin blooming purple beneath my hands, blood smearing under my fingers like war paint. I should have marked her—bruised, bitten, bleeding—until her screams turned to silence, until the lesson etched itself into the marrow of her bones turning the soft curve of her butt a furious shade of red. Again. And again. Until nothing remained but obedience and the echo of my name in her throat.
You don’t get to speak to me like that.
Not when I am tearing apart every damn thing I have ever known for you. Not when I am fucking unraveling at the seams for you.
Every reckless word, every ounce of defiance, every fucking wound she has carved into me. Let her wear it in the bruises I would have given her, in the heat of my palm against her flesh, in the way her breath would catch when she realized—there is no escaping me. No running from the madness she has stirred in my blood.
Even though, I let her stand there with that bitchy mouth that cuts like a blade, those eyes that gut me deeper than any knife ever could.
It is not too late to turn back, Xan.
The thought slams into me like a command, an inevitability. My body stills, muscles coiled so tight they ache.
No. She does not get to fuck with my head and leave as if it was all a game. She started this—she can damn well deal with the fallout. Especially when I just had to kill a man to save her ungrateful ass.
My hands tighten into fists. My teeth grind. I turn. with cold, brutal certainty.
I stalk back to the door, pushing it open so forcefully it crashes against the wall before I kick it shut behind me. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot. Mira has not moved, still standing there as if she was waiting—no, hoping—that I would come back for her. The way her lips twitch, with just the faintest hint of relief, makes my blood burn hotter.
Sorry, little fox.
“You think this is over?” My voice drops, sharp and unforgiving. “The bed. On your fucking stomach. Now.”
Her expression shifts instantly. Confusion first. Then realization. And finally, fear.
Perfection.
She stands, her posture rigid, but halts mid-motion.
“Okay, Xan. I’m sorry for what I said, truly. But the bed… it’s soaked in blood, and there is an entire man’s body lying there…”
I let out a soft, bitter laugh.
“Even better. After that, you would have to be fucking stupid to try that shit again. But hey—maybe you want to get ruined. Maybe that filthy little mouth of yours was begging for it.”
My words are void of mercy, devoid of any compassion. She thought that man was me. I can see that now. A misunderstanding, fine. But the way she answers, the way she brushes it off—it is unforgivable, especially after everything I have sacrificed to keep her alive.
She remains unmoved. Silent rebellion. And just like that, she pushes me past the line. No more mercy.
“You wanted to lie down with him? Here’s your chance, baby girl.”
In a single, controlled motion, I seize her, shoving her face-first onto the mattress. She cries out, but it means nothing to me. She should have thought about this before she spoke. Her body is trembling, stiff with defiance and desperation.
I grip her wrist hard, forcing her back onto the bed as she gasps, her eyes wide with shock. It makes no difference. Nothing matters except this—making her understand, feel every ounce of anger that I have been building inside.
“You thought you could say whatever the hell you wanted and get away with it? After everything I’ve fucking done for you?”
She flinches, but it is too late. I yank her closer, making her face me, forcing her to look me in the eye as I speak.
“You wanted to cross a line, huh? You wanted to test me? You have no idea what you’ve done, Mira.”
Her breath catches as I press my body closer, pinning her down with a suffocating intensity. There is no escape. She cannot run from me now.
“I’ve kept you alive. I’ve kept you safe,” I snarl. “And this is how you repay me? With your fucking attitude and your pathetic little games!”
Her pulse quickens, her chest heaving beneath me, I can tell she is feeling it now. The heat. The anger. I grab her by the chin, drawing her into my stare, to see each single drop of hatred and desire mixing inside my body.
“Looking for pain, were you? Well, here it is. Here’s what happens when you push me too far. So desperate to make me look at you. You’ve got my attention now and you’re going to regret to be alive.”
I cut her off before she speaks.
“If I did not have this mask on, Mira, I would kiss you so fucking brutally you would not be able to breathe. Your entire face would feel the burn of my rage as I would sink my teeth into your lips until I taste the blood seeping into my mouth.”
She is trembling underneath me, teetering on the edge of a breakdown or a revelation.
Good. That is exactly what I want.
“You think I’m a monster, Mira?” I ask, “Because you do not know what monsters are capable of.”
Her breath hitches again, and I can see the struggle in her eyes—part of her still wants to fight, but the rest of her knows I am not playing anymore.
Every inch of me is focused on her—on the way she is reacting, the way she is fighting it even though she craves it. The way her eyes are still burning with defiance, even though they are caught in my grip.
“You believe you know what you want? What does it mean to push me to this point?”
She tries to look away, but I stop her. I force her to stay with me, in the storm we have created.
“You asked for this side of me, for the beast you think I am.” I whisper. “Don’t be so sure you will survive it.”
Her chest is rising faster, and I see the fight leave her eyes. I let go of her chin, my fingers trailing down her neck, feeling the quick beats of her pulse. My hand pauses at the base of her throat, pressing down just enough to make her gasp.
“I know you are just dying to make me lose control.”
She shakes her head. I can feel her submission, her surrender, even if she is still trying to deny it. Her mouth parts, her breath is shallow. I know—deep down—that she wants it. Wants me. Wants to feel this power, this dominance, though it terrifies her.
“Say it,” I say in a dark and dangerous way. “Say you want me, say you need me. Because there is no turning back now. Once I’ve taken you, you will never be the same.”
I see it in her eyes—the vulnerability, the pure desire that has been buried beneath all her resistance. It is like a switch flipped, and she is no longer fighting me. She is giving in, whether she likes it or not. Damn, I cannot hold back anymore.
I lean down. “You’re mine now, little fox. You’re mine to break. And I’ll break you, piece by piece, until there is nothing left but the echo of what I’ve done.”
I take the time to turn her head toward the body lying beside her. I want her to look at her mistake, to realize the extent of all her actions, as foolish as they may have been.
My hands move over her, fingers dragging along the curve of her hips before I tear the satin dress from her body, stripping her bare to my sight. A sharp inhale, her spine bowing, her skin rising in goosebumps—she feels it. The danger. The inevitable.
I seize her ass with both hands, digging in hard, not caring if it hurts—only that she won’t forget the way it felt. She lets out a strangled gasp as her thighs clench shut, caught between pain and craving.
She thought playing with fire would be fun. Now she will learn what it means to burn.
What have I done with my life to end up here, caught in this spiraling chaos of degradation and torment?
I close my eyes, trying to escape the gravity of this reality crushing me, still each image cuts deeper, more relentless. Just days ago, I was content, immersed in the calm of my art gallery, a world where the frenzy of the outside world felt distant, almost unreal.
I advised wealthy clients, those hollow beings who wandered in, desperate to adorn their meaningless lives with something of value. I watched as the Victorias complimented paintings they did not understand, pretending they had passions beyond their wealth and gossip. Meanwhile, their Reginalds played the part of attentive husbands, offering polite ‘yes, yes’ and ‘no, no,’ when in truth, their minds were elsewhere—thinking of Chloe, the little escort they’d just spent the night with, relishing the fleeting connection that felt more real to them than the stale lives they led.
I had always found it all so absurd, and yet, in this moment, I ache for it—the ridiculousness of it all. My pretentious clients, their empty compliments, their hollow chatter about things they could never truly grasp. I miss the laughter with Zoey, the quietude of my apartment, untouched by the storm that now tears through my life. I miss the monotony, the simplicity of it.
Could Xan really live amidst such banality? To wake up one morning with nothing more than the soft light of dawn spilling over the floor, a dog at his feet, a cup of coffee warming his hands, and a book in his lap as he watches the world go by through a window.
The thought feels oneiric. He is made for danger, for things that thrive in the shadows. Still, in these moments with him, I see a side of myself I never knew existed—fragments of who I am, now awakened from a long slumber. It is as though he is peeling back layers of me I thought I had buried, and with each revelation, I am caught between resistance and surrender.
I am yanked back into the brutal reality of the moment by the sharp sting of his palm striking my skin. A sudden, searing heat blooming across my flesh.
Seriously?
“As if that’s going to change anything.”
Another blow lands, harder this time, the impact stealing my breath. He is not stopping. Are we really doing this?
“When I thought you couldn’t get any more psychotic, you come up with a punishment straight out of the Dark Ages!”
“Maybe your dear father should have given you a few more when you were young. Might have saved you from being such a fucking pain.”
That’s it.
“In no fucking world do you get to talk about my father! You know nothing about him—you know nothing about my life!”
I hear him chuckle, low and amused, like my outrage is nothing more than entertainment.
“Oh, but I do, Mira. I know everything about you. I know the exact order you eat your breakfast. I know what movies you watch when you’re sad, which oat ice cream flavor you reach for when you’re happy. I know you secretly dream of living in the world of Harry Potter or Star Wars, that you have felt misunderstood since the moment you could form a thought, and that the second alcohol touches your lips, you transform into fucking Céline Dion. Nothing slips past me. Least of all, you.”
Tears slip down my face effortlessly. Sorrow? No, not quite. Sadness? His comment about my father cut deep, but I was not exactly kind either. Fear? No. I have come to understand that fear excites me, that I need it to feel truly alive.
It’s something else entirely.
Then it hits me—it’s joy.
Joy that someone sees me, truly sees me. That someone knows me in ways I did not even know I wanted to be known. That someone pays attention to the smallest, most insignificant details of my existence. Joy in the way he makes me feel free—paradoxically—even as I am bound to his will. In the way he drags me into experiences I never imagined possible, into a world where I feel more.
“Xan… Hit me again.”
His body goes rigid behind me, every muscle tensing in an instant. He clearly did not expect that. Hell, I did not expect that. Though for once, I silence the voice in my head that tries to analyze, to control every outcome. Instead, I listen to a force deeper, primal which tells me to trust him. To trust that he will know exactly how far to take me—not too much, not too little, just perfectly enough.
A shiver rolls through my chest, spreading like wildfire, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Sparks crackle beneath my skin, a dizzying rush of electricity coursing through my veins, between my legs and it is exhilarating. Addictive. I want more.
I want him to ruin me. I want to be shattered, undone, left trembling beneath the supremacy of his touch and the power of his control.
“Are you going to hit me, or should I wait for the corpse to do it for you?”
The first strike lands before I have even finished my sentence. Then another. And another. Each one sharper, each one searing through the flesh like fire licking at bare nerves. My breath hitches, stolen by the vigor of it, by the brutal poetry of pain unraveling across my body.
“Show me,” I whisper, trembling but certain. “Show me how wicked I’ve been. Show me how much you want me to regret walking away from you.”
The punishment continues, relentless, merciless. My curves hums with the sensation—sharp, stinging, alive. It takes me a moment to realize that the warmth trickling down my skin is mine, that the crimson staining my body is not his nor from the dead man beside me.
It is me.
My shell breaking beneath the weight of his fury. Even so, I make no move to leave. I want more. I want to be stripped bare under his hands and remade by the violence of his need.
His heartbeat crashes against mine, thundering in the silence, like an impending cyclone ready to destroy everything in its path. Every muscle straining with desire, as if he is teetering on the brink of insanity. His voice, barely more than a rasp, drips with frustration and hunger.
“Be careful what you wish for, Mira,” he murmurs, the words coated in dark warning. “You will regret this, just like you regret your actions right now.”
I don’t care. I feel it now—this deep, burning need that surges through me like a tidal wave. I am lost to it. I need him, I want him, and I know there is no turning back. The ache inside me only intensifies, drowning me, pulling me deeper into a whirlpool of raw, uncontrollable passion.
I hear the sharp sound of his zipper tearing open, his cock finally released, exposed.
“Fuck, you know you’re leaving me with no other choice, little fox. If you were not so damn beautiful, so irresistibly hot, and so fucking stubborn, I wouldn’t be pushed to do all of this to you.”
“Do what needs to be done. Even if it destroys me. I’ve already made peace with the pain.”
I turn to him, desperate to see his face, his reaction. Again, the mask stands between us, an impenetrable wall. That damn mask. The one I had momentarily forgotten in the mayhem of this night. My eyes search for his, though all I can find is darkness. I want to believe he is looking back at me, that he sees me, really sees me.
“Maybe I’m overstepping,” I whisper. “But this… whatever this is between us… it cannot truly exist if you keep that barrier forever…”
A silence so dense it threatens to crush the air from my lungs hangs.
“I know.”
The heaviness of it crushes me. Not just the words, but the way he says them. Like a man bound by chains he cannot break, no matter how much they cut right into his bones. Maybe he does not want to break them. Maybe he believes he can’t. But I feel it. The sorrow just beneath the surface, the war raging inside his heart, the torment of a man who has been trapped for too long. A man who doesn’t know what it is like to be free.
I wish I could lift this burden from his shoulders, strip away the weight he carries so relentlessly—but I know he is not ready. And I respect that. What I know, with absolute certainty, is that I am ready. Ready to take the last part of my punishment.
I arch my back, pressing myself against his dick, dragging my ass over the hardness that I know is meant for me. An offering. A challenge. A plea. I cannot endure the wait any longer. I am so overwhelmed with desire that merely imagining what he might do to me pushes me to the verge of delirium.
His hand move swiftly, expecting another sharp strike. To my surprise, it slips between my thighs. Heat floods me instantly as his fingers graze my sensitive nerves, trailing with agonizing slowness until they rest against the aching pulse at my core. The tenderness of his touch is such a stark distinction to the violent strikes that came before, and the sensation is nothing short of intoxicating.
“You’re absolutely drenched, Mira,” he murmurs, his voice a sinful caress. “Think you could come for me?”
His fingers find their place, gliding over my clit with slow, deliberate circles, the pressure just right—enough to make my eyes roll back.
“Xan… it feels so good.”
With Julian, I always ended up reaching for toys, his touch as sensual as a piece of unfinished wood. Nothing like this. Nothing like him.
“I asked you a question.”
His movements quicken, coaxing pleasure from me so effortlessly it is almost infuriating. He is way too good at this. Too practiced. The realization ignites a brief, ridiculous flicker of jealousy. I know it is absurd, but I cannot help it.
He seizes himself with a firm grip, the hotness of his cock pulsing against his palm, letting it fall in sharp, rhythmic slaps against my ass cheeks. Every strike ignites a fresh wave of sensation, a cruel mix of fire and ecstasy that tightens my throat and steals my breath. My skin, raw and aching, trembles beneath his touch, each impact sending shockwaves through my entire body.
Even the mere brush of air feels excruciating, each live wire alight with overstimulation. A broken moan slips past my lips—part torment, part desperate surrender.
“I fucking asked you a question. I don’t think you’re in any position to ignore me.”
His words slice through the thick, electric tension hanging between us, sharp and unrelenting. There is no room for hesitation, no escape from the dominance in his tone.
Will I surrender? The answer is carved into every aching inch of me. My body trembles with need, my breath shattering into uneven gasps. Yet for some inexplicable reason, I still cannot force the words out. Stubborn pride knots itself around my throat, holding me hostage, even as my lower stomach defies me— pleading, begging for more.
“Make me say it,” I exhale, syllables soaked in challenge.
A dark, knowing chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You won’t have to tell me twice.”
A second later, his fingers penetrate my pussy with devastating precision, tracing slow, tantalizing movements against the most sensitive part of my vagina. A sharp gasp rips through me as pleasure coils tight, winding across my muscles, spreading like liquid fire.
“Is this what you wanted?”
Thoughts refuse to align, let alone an answer. The pressure builds relentlessly, the line between pleasure and torment blurring until they become the same. I grasp at anything—his arms, his shirt, the sheets—desperate for an anchor as he pulls me deeper into oblivion.
“Say it,” he commands, his grip tightening just enough to remind me of exactly where I stand.
“Say that you are going to drench the bed with more than your blood, or I stop.”
A strangled moan spills from my lips, my last shred of defiance crumbling to dust. He has shattered me, stripped me bare in ways I never imagined, reduced me to nothing but sensation and hunger.
“Please Xan, never stop or I’ll die!”
“Well, fucking say it now, before I’m forced to unearth the words buried so deep inside you myself. And though it may sound enticing, I assure you, it will not be.”
Euphoria swells to its peak as his touch deepens, sending waves of burning bliss. I have to say it now—if he stops, I swear I will fall apart from this need ripping me open.
I feel like it’s as if, by yielding to his demand, I tear down the last of my defenses—those fragile barriers that once held the possibility of saving me, of helping me break free from this emotional entrapment. Since Julian, fear consumes me; nothing feels authentic anymore, and everything is tainted by creeping doubt.
I will not remain this fragile forever. That is the lie I repeat, again and again—while stuck in a version of myself that refuses to be anything else. The past winds around me like barbed wire, its claws embedded too deep to simply shake off. Every scar, every betrayal, every whispered lie is a thread woven into the fabric of who I am. I have spent my life guarding myself, wrapping layers around my heart, convincing myself that I could survive alone. That I had to.
Still, here I am, hovering at the cusp of a perilous abyss, a boundless, uncharted expanse. With him.
Never have I felt so close to the precipice, yet so achingly safe. As if he is both the storm and the shelter. It would be a lie—a coward’s excuse—to hide behind the wounds Julian left when I am the one silently begging Xan to let me in. To lower his mask. To strip away the last layers between us so that we can be whatever we are destined to become.
“Xan, please… never abandon me.”
The words spill out before I can stop them and, instantly, shame tangles itself inside me. I want to snatch them back, pretend they never existed. Although it’s impossible. Because they are the truest things I have ever said. I have been abandoned too many times to count. My father was stolen to my youth by death. My mother let herself be swallowed by her demons, too mentally broken to fight for me. And Julian… Julian had been nothing but an illusion, a cruel deception I mistook for love.
I brace myself for silence, for indifference, for some kind of reprimand. Instead, Xan exhales slowly, his grip shifting. He releases himself; his palm drags up the length of my spine, a single stroke that is both grounding and electrifying.
“The ones who left you made the biggest mistake of their miserable lives,” he breathes. “And me, little fox? I never make mistakes.”
With those words, his clap tightens in my hair, yanking my head with just enough force to steal the air from my lungs. My back arches, pressing me flush against him, the rigid heat of his torso searing into mine. I can feel every tense muscle, every controlled breath, as if he is branding me with his presence alone.
Without warning, his fingers sink so much deeper into my pussy, claiming, until my body has no choice but to surrender. A sharp, unrestrained cry rips from my throat bear by the aching pleasure that sends waves of electricity between my legs.
“Don’t test me again, Mira,” he warns. “I’m this close to turning from ‘cute asshole’ to ‘full-on nightmare.’ So, you better answer me now. For the last time, are you going to come for me?”
My body trembles, pounds in my ears, my skin burning everywhere he touches. I know—there is no running from this. No hiding from what he has awakened.
A shuddering exhale escapes my lips, the last of my defenses crumbling.
“Not only will I come for you, Xan,” I whisper, shaking with devotion, “but I swear, from this moment on, you will be the only one who ever makes me.”
My words land in the room, solid and immutable, anchoring us in their gravity. His fingers tighten, his body tenses, and for a moment, there is nothing but silence—charged, blistering, a turmoil about to break.
He strokes himself once more, his movements perfectly synchronized with the rhythm he has set against me. Our breaths tangle, rising and falling in unison, a symphony of need and desperation. He leads, and I follow—because, clearly, he is an exceptional dancer. Though I once thought myself suited only for a slow, measured waltz, it turns out I have a taste for a dance far more reckless. He lowers his hard cock corded with veins to my slit, teasing me with the barest touch.
Is this finally it? The moment I have been unknowingly waiting for all along. My restraint shatters, disintegrating beneath the weight of sensation—each one crashing over me, relentless, consuming, impossible to outrun.
I am drenched, my body trembling under the slow, torturous rhythm of his fingers, each stroke igniting a deeper need. The pressure he exerts sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs, my walls clenching around the emptiness, dying to be filled.
“Fuck, Mira, you are soaking for me,” he groans, trying to restrain. His tip teases at my entrance, barely there. I whimper, desperate. “It’s taking everything I have not to bury myself inside your tight little pussy right now.”
I throb with the need to have him fully inside, to feel every inch of Xan’s dick stretching and filling me.
“I’m barely holding back from sinking down onto you,” I plead, my body already revealing just how badly I crave to be fucked.
He keeps the torture, the head of his cock gliding over my slick skin. His fingers move with a slow rhythm, coaxing, claiming—I cannot take it anymore. By the way his breath falters, ragged and uneven, I know he is just as desperate.
“I’m going to come, Xan. Just for you. Only for you.”
He lets go of me just long enough to deliver a few sharp slaps to my already tender ass’s flesh. The sensation is a wicked blend of pain and pleasure, my body arch instinctively toward him. A soft, broken moan slips past my lips, yet I offer no resistance—I take it, take him, surrendering to the discipline, to the delicious torment of being his.
“Good girl. You have no fucking idea how proud I am.”
At his ultimate words, I feel his hard length glide up my lower back, the end of his cock tapping against me in a teasing rhythm—each contact igniting a deeper ache, a need that coils tight in my core.
“Now, Mira.” His fingers press into me, demanding. “Soak my hand with your pleasure—drown me in it. Show me how fucking badly you want this.”
I finally unravel, a cry of sheer ecstasy escaping so intense that I feel a rush of warmth spread across my spine, his cum sliding between my cheeks. The timing is flawless, our pleasure intertwining, a perfect harmony that pulses through us. I release completely, more freely than I ever have before, letting my orgasm consume my entire being.
“Damn little fox, feeling how much you’re coming is the highest form of praise you could ever give me.”
Honestly, I had never responded like this before. With Julian, it was always about his satisfaction, and the rare moments he bothered to return the favor were nothing short of lackluster. It felt more like a half-hearted attempt, like drunk men at a bar stumbling through a dart game, trying to find the target, but missing every time.
“Let me take care of you now,” he whispers, his gentle touch clashes with the bruises he’s left behind.
He gathers the semen spread on my back, warm against his fingers, and applies it over my burning butt’s flesh with tender, measured strokes. I flinch at first, the sting a sharp reminder, but then—the relief blossoms, enveloping my pain like a soft breeze, pulling into its soothing embrace.
If someone had told me that one day I would lie next to a dead man, surrendering to the hands that had punished me, letting them appease the very wounds they inflicted with them cum, my laughter would have erupted like a geyser with a serious attitude problem. Still, here I am—trapped in the space among pain and comfort, discipline and devotion, shame and something that tastes dangerously like love.
Xan shifts, settling beside me while I agonizingly turn onto my back. His pack of cigarettes rests just within reach, and flicks one out, lighting it with a deep, satisfied sigh.
“As much as I’m enjoying the view you’re giving me, it is time you put some clothes on. One of the Order’s assistants will be here soon, and trust me, you don’t want him to see you naked. I’d rather not have to explain to his boss why he’d need to send another employee to clean up after two bodies.”
Placing my dress over my stomach, he gestures for me to stand, a silent command I obey without hesitation. With a subtle motion, he directs me to position myself before him. I comply once more, wordless, drawn to the quiet authority in his gaze.
“Far be it from me to suggest that this dress doesn’t make you look absolutely mesmerizing,” he murmurs, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “But before you dress up, I want to see you—every inch of you.”
He looks effortlessly regal, lounging there with that quiet confidence, exuding mystery, a man with the world at his feet. And for reasons beyond my understanding, he has chosen me. He has decided that it is my body he desires, my curves he worships, my red hair, my pale eyes.
The impact of that realization crashes over me. I have never known what it feels like to really belong to someone, to be wanted like this. With him, I feel it—a tether, an unshakable pull. He proves me that I am not alone in this solitary world. That, for the first time, I have an ally to stand beside. That, for the first time, I can belong to something—someone. A home. A family.